Illusive (26 page)

“We knew you had to exist,” Aristeus said. “Brenton Fiacre would never let it die, not with him. Too arrogant, from what I’ve heard.”

Alan doesn’t move from his spot, but Ciere sees his fingers flex convulsively, like he’s grasping at something only he can see. “What are you talking about?” he says.

Aristeus steps forward. “Our sources in TATE told me about you.”

A shadow passes over Alan’s face. “You don’t know anything about TATE.”

He straightens, as if to move away from the railing, but Aristeus snaps,
“Don’t move,”
in that voice of his.

Alan freezes, his gaze fixed on the deck.

“I know that some of them can be bought.” Aristeus shrugs. “Members of TATE are human, just like anyone else. Some of them have their price, and for a big enough sum, they were willing to tell all sorts of stories—stories about Richelle Fiacre living in the US. And her young nephew.” Aristeus lifts his chin, and something in his voice hardens. “I knew it, then. I knew what you are.”

“The last Fiacre?” Alan says. He’s still frozen, unable to move even from his awkward lean against the barge’s railing.

Aristeus’s eyes rake over Alan, as if he’s searching for something. He jerks his head at Ciere. “Does she even know?” he asks. “Did you tell her what she’s protecting?”

“No,” Alan says, and she isn’t sure if it’s a denial or if he’s answering Aristeus’s question.

Aristeus inhales sharply. “Should I tell her or should you?”

“No,” Alan says again, and there’s panic in his voice.

“What?” Ciere says, unable to keep silent. “Tell me what?” She looks to Alan, but he won’t meet her eyes.

It’s Aristeus who speaks up. “That he memorized everything about Praevenir. That he’s an
eidos
. He is the literal living formula.”

Ciere blinks. The world has gone fuzzy, and her pulse is pounding in her ears, the continual
whooshwhoosh
drowning out all other sounds. Then Aristeus’s words truly sink in, and the world breaks apart, re-forming into a scene she doesn’t recognize.

Her first instinct is denial. She wants to protest that there is no way Alan is an eidos. He’s just… Alan. Awkward and lanky with shiny black hair and a shy, quick smile. He can’t be immune. He
said
he wasn’t immune.

She would deny it. She wants to deny it. But… he knew his way around Kit’s basement without needing a light. He remembered how to get from their body-dumping site back to Philadelphia without using a map. He identified a random painting in Kit’s basement. He offered to translate Devon’s Greek profanity.

He knew the meaning of Ciere’s name.

“Alan?” she says. Her voice is frayed, breaking apart.

Alan finally meets her eyes.

He’s trembling. It’s the first time she’s ever seen him truly
frightened. Even when facing the prospect of the FBI or the mobsters, he didn’t flinch. But now he looks like the world is threatening to burn and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Your father made you memorize the formula before he died, didn’t he?” Aristeus says. “There is no way that Brenton Fiacre would have allowed his work to die with him. He had to bury it somewhere.” He raises a hand to Alan, gesturing at him. “Where better than the mind of his own son?”

Alan’s gaze never leaves Ciere. She sees all his fears, reads them in the whites of his eyes and the tears brimming over his eyelashes.

Ciere moves her fingers, twitching them. She tries to gesture in a way that Aristeus won’t see, flicking her eyes down to her feet and then back to Alan.
Come here
, she mouths. She needs him to move, to stand behind her. She can’t explain her sudden surge of terror—she only knows that Aristeus is looking at Alan the way that Kit looks at a weed in his tulip garden. Like an object to be removed.

Alan’s gaze locks with hers. “Come here,” she whispers. Something in Alan’s face flickers, and the very air seems to shift around him.

Without word or warning, Aristeus pulls the pistol out of his belt, flicks the safety off, and shoots Alan through the chest.

W
hen Ciere was eleven, she listened to a lot of poetry.

It was in those first few months after Kit took her in. Nightmares plagued her, and she’d wake up trembling, paralyzed by fresh grief and terror. She would rise from the couch and tiptoe into Kit’s room. Being a light sleeper, he’d wake the moment she touched the door. “Again?” he would say. He sat her back on the couch and went to make her a mug of warm milk. When she was ensconced in blankets and clutching her drink, Kit would pick a tome from his shelf, sit down on a rickety kitchen chair, and read aloud until Ciere drifted to sleep. He preferred reading from his books of poetry. He said the rhythm would be calming.

On one such night, Ciere tried to force her eyes to close again while Kit murmured softly to her. “Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.”

She had no idea what he was reading—the words bled together until all that mattered was the soothing cadence of his voice. But the next few lines of the poem broke through her fog of exhaustion.

“From what I’ve tasted of desire,” Kit murmured, “I hold with those who favor fire.”

Alan doesn’t cry out. Only his eyes seem to register the shock. His brows draw together in an accusatory expression, like he cannot believe that Aristeus shot him.

His back hits the railing and he tips over it, his hands scrabbling at the metal desperately. Blood is already soaking through his shirt in an ugly crimson stain. Even as he tries to hold on, a shiver goes through his whole frame. He blinks over and over, and each time it looks like it is a struggle to open his eyes. His grip slackens.

And he falls.

The sound of the river lapping at the boat swallows up any noise Alan’s body might make as it slams the water. Aristeus takes several swift steps forward and peers over the side of the barge, his gun still held at the ready. He scans the river below.

Ciere doesn’t move. She can’t move. The boat feels unsteady beneath her, rocking in the gentle current of the Delaware. Her hands have balled into fists without her realizing. She feels like she’s been gripped tight, her muscles hard
and stiff. She isn’t sure she could move if she tried. A buzzing has set up around her temples.

Aristeus continues to examine the river. “Not even a splash,” he murmurs. “It’s like he never even existed. Which is the way it has to be.” He moves back from the edge and turns to look at Ciere. She flinches, expecting him to aim the gun at her. Instead, Aristeus reactivates the safety and tucks the pistol into his jacket.

“It’s a more dignified end than he would’ve received anywhere else.” He sounds regretful. “Daniel, would you go back to the cars? Gervais and the others should have subdued those criminals by now. They’ll want you to help search for Carson.”

Daniel doesn’t move at first. He hovers in place; his gaze is fixed where Alan fell over the railing. He’s shaking.

He has to pass by Ciere on his way off the barge, and Ciere scurries backward, scrambling away from him on hands and knees.

Daniel sees her shy away, and something in his eyes shatters. “Ciere,” he says, and what she hears is,
I’m sorry
.

Ciere tenses; she knows that he’s not working with the feds voluntarily. She felt what that Aristeus could do. If Daniel is under orders to work for Aristeus, then it’s not his fault.

But that doesn’t change anything.

“Me, too,” she replies.

Once Daniel is gone, Aristeus walks over to her. She’s still on her knees, her unsteady legs unable to support her weight.

All the fierceness is gone from Aristeus’s expression; he simply looks tired. He says, “You should know that if the US government had got their hands on Fiacre, they’d have tortured the formula out of him and erased his memory with a bullet through his temple. They couldn’t be allowed to have him.”

This makes no sense. Ciere shakes her head in mute denial. This man is working for the feds, not against them. “You’re—you’re UAI,” she says.

Aristeus’s smile is cold. “Only because it will further help our kind. People like you and me—we’re different. We don’t deserve to be hunted, to be forcibly recruited into armies and organized crime. We deserve the lives we want—whatever that might be.” He kneels before her. Ciere cringes back, but Aristeus is only reaching for her mask. He picks it up; it has fallen in the spilled gasoline.

He holds it out, and Ciere snatches the mask back. It’s unusable now, but somehow she wants something in her hands. Something solid.

“What would you have done with Fiacre?” Aristeus says, and his voice is startlingly gentle. “Taught him how to be like you? Would you damn someone else to this life? Running, scheming, killing?

“Look at you,” he says. “Wearing a mask, unable to walk around with your real face because you know they’ll find you.” He moves slowly, as if not to startle her, and touches one long finger to the mask in her hand. “Do you want to spend your whole life wearing one of these? As long as Fiacre was alive, our kind faced that kind of prejudice. With him gone… I don’t suppose you had a lot of time to learn economics while on the run. Let me lay it out for you: It’s all about supply and demand. At the moment, the supply of immune American individuals is utterly insufficient to the demands of the government. That’s why they have been so…
enthusiastic
about recruitment. We stand on the brink of war with several other countries—the Pacific War was only the beginning. And America’s only advantage over our many enemies is our greater number of immune agents.”

“The rest of the world has immune people, too,” she says.

“Yes, but not as many. Fiacre Pharmaceuticals was based in America, so we received more shipments of the vaccine than other countries.” Aristeus’s face remains calm, like he is a teacher imparting lessons to an unruly student.
He sounds like Kit
, Ciere thinks, struck by the familiarity of it all. He continues, “We have the numbers, and that is the only advantage the US government holds. That is why we are so valuable. And as long as we are valuable, we hold power over the government. And as long as we hold that power, I can help people like us.”

“You’re trying to
help
immune people?” Ciere snarls, her anger simmering to the surface. She flings an arm out at where Alan stood, where his body vanished over the side of the boat. “Well, you’re doing a fantastic job.”

Aristeus flinches. “Why are you even telling me this?” Ciere says raggedly. “Just kill me already.”

Aristeus rises to his full height. “I’m not going to kill you.” He sounds like the suggestion is repulsive. Like he hasn’t just shot someone. “However, if you want a meal, a change of clothes, and a job, I’d be happy to oblige.”

Ciere gapes at him. “What?”

“Well, you’re caught, aren’t you?” Aristeus flaps one hand in a vague gesture. “The FBI will be here in a moment, and they’ll want to arrest you. I could offer an alternative.”

Ciere finally understands what Aristeus is getting at and she is so startled that she laughs. “You want to recruit me? For the UAI?”

“You’re an illusionist, aren’t you?” he says. “We could always use someone like you.”

She laughs again. “Oh, sure. Of course I’ll come with you—that makes total sense.”

“Of course it does,” Aristeus says sharply. “Because what other choice do you have? Go on living like this?” He throws a look of contempt at her mask.

“Is that what you offered Daniel?” Ciere says.

“You know Daniel.” Comprehension flickers in his eyes and he nods. “Ah. You must be part of his crew. Good—that might help you transition easier. Daniel is no longer going to be accused of aiding and abetting terrorists. I saved him from being shipped off to one of the US’s offshore prisons. He won’t be beaten, tortured, or starved. He’s going to help me create a safe haven for our kind.” He inches closer. “Don’t you get it? If we’re rare enough, powerful enough, the government will have to bow to our demands. If all immune people are united, the government won’t be able to stand against us—no one could. Not a single nation, and not the species that abandoned us as soon as we became dangerous.

“Come with me,” he says. “I promise no one will hurt you. I won’t let them hurt you.”

And perhaps the most terrifying part is that Aristeus sounds sincere. His face is open, beseeching. The way he said those last sentences—
no one will hurt you; I won’t let them hurt you
—sounds like a plea.

When Ciere stares up at him, all she can think is that she could’ve turned out like Aristeus. He’s young enough that he must have lived most of his life with his immunity. He must know what it’s like to run, to be hungry, to burrow into a dark corner. Maybe his parents are dead; maybe he ran away when he was young; maybe a government official found him the same way Kit found her: starving and dirty. Maybe they
offered him a warm place, a safe place, and maybe he grew up there. Maybe that is why he is with the UAI—because it’s the only place he could fit in. Maybe he truly thinks that if the UAI is powerful enough, they can change things for the better. Maybe he truly believes that killing Alan was the only way to keep the formula out of the government’s hands. Maybe he truly regrets it.

Maybe.

She could go with him now. She could leave all this behind her. She lets herself imagine the future as Aristeus does—wearing clean clothes, standing in a stark office, surrounded by feds she wouldn’t fear. They’d be her coworkers.

What Aristeus is offering her is a life without fear. A life without constantly looking over her shoulder.

It’s all she’s ever wanted.

All the money, all the gigs, all the plotting and the crimes—it has all been about consolidating power. But this man is offering her something she could never steal: a legitimate life.

“Come with me,” he says again. “Please.”

But it’s his earlier words that echo through her still:
Show me who you are
. It’s a command she cannot ignore, and she hasn’t shown him everything yet. She crouches on the deck of a long-forgotten boat, surrounded by abandoned crates and cargo, inhaling the scent of gasoline and river water. She
looks down and is almost surprised to see the mask still in her hand. The wool is soggy with gas, its surface shining in the dim light. She stares down at it and thinks of everything it has been to her: a shield, a wall to hide behind, and a security blanket. Slowly, she reaches a hand into her jeans pocket. There are several things still there—Guntram’s business card, a pen, and…
there
.

“You’re right,” she says.

When her hand reemerges, she holds a slender plastic cylinder in her hand. It’s the lighter.

Ciere looks down at it. “Time to stop hiding.”

Aristeus doesn’t understand at first. His gaze flicks from her face to the lighter, and then to the gasoline-soaked mask in her hand. He makes a sudden noise, a sharp cry of protest.

Ciere’s thumb hits the lighter and a flame springs to life, tiny and quivering.

She touches the open flame to the mask. It catches instantly, flaring with sudden brilliance, and she drops it. The mask falls directly in the path of the spilled fuel.

Everything lights up.

Brilliant reds and yellows illuminate the previously dark barge. It is amazing how fast the fire spreads, greedily following the tendrils of gas. In moments, the fire is far beyond what anyone could hope to control. Aristeus skitters back, rushing
toward the dock, but the fire has already caught hold on that side of the boat; there is no escape that way.

The look he throws her is confused and betrayed. He can’t understand why she would reject his way of life.

Ciere smiles at him. She doesn’t move, only watches as the fire takes hold on the boat, swirling around her. Aristeus runs for the side of the boat. Without hesitation, he launches himself over the railing and vanishes into the water with a loud splash. She barely catches a glimpse of him before he is swept away, pulled downstream.

By that time, the entire ship is alight. Ciere crouches in the midst of the flames.

The world is nothing but fire and smoke and ash, and she welcomes it.

Somewhere just beyond the dock, Brandt Guntram rises shakily to his feet. He stumbles once and presses his hand to the back of his head. He is bleeding from where his skull cracked against the dock. When he looks up, his jaw drops.

The boat is on fire.

He takes several unsteady steps forward until he stands at the edge of the dock. He looks as if he is on the verge of running, as if he wants to do something, but doesn’t know what. The flames have consumed the boat, swallowing it whole. The
sounds of the fight have vanished completely—the agents and Conrad have probably seen the fire and gone still. As for Guntram, he stands on the docks with an expression that appears almost regretful.

Then his eyes widen.

Two figures emerge from the flames.

They leap from the boat onto the docks. They should be on fire. They should burn. Their hair should be singed, their clothes ashes, and their skin charred away.

But Ciere and Alan walk away from the fire unharmed.

Ciere’s hand is clasped in Alan’s, guiding him through the fire. He walks gingerly; he didn’t move fast enough to avoid the shot completely. While the illusion was meant to look like Alan took the full force of the bullet, the real Alan was grazed. Blood runs down his right arm, and Ciere knows they will need to bandage it. Her body is still jumpy with adrenaline, and her legs tremble slightly with each step. Her grip on Alan is as much to anchor herself as to steady him.

Guntram gapes at them both. His head twists from side to side, and he looks as if he would love to ask a question, but has forgotten all the necessary words. She and Alan should be dead, should at the very least be burned. But they walked through the flames like they didn’t exist. Guntram opens his mouth, and then closes it wordlessly.

Ciere knows exactly what he wants to ask:
How?
She
doesn’t need words to explain. She simply holds out her hand, palm up.

A flame blooms out from her fingers. Just like the flames currently engulfing the ship.